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“Children-humans,” Og corrected me. “That was why the piskies whispered. Young humans. They thought they might play with them but they threw pinecones and rocks and drove them away, instead.”
The pronoun abuse in that sentence nearly gave me a headache, but I was able to follow it. “The children drove the piskies away. They didn’t want to be found.”
That meant that there had to be at least one Talent in the group, or someone familiar enough with the fatae to know that either the piskies weren’t a hallucination—a common enough belief—or that if you were trying to keep a low profile, you did not invite piskies to hang around.
“Human-children…” In fatae-terms, that meant teens, not little kids. “And no adults?”
Og rolled his yellowing eyes up at me again. “How should I know? I only know what piskies whisper and they’re piskies.”
Valid point. The fact that they liked to gossip did not mean that they got the facts straight, or wouldn’t embellish or pare down to make the story more interesting.
“Enough?” the da-esh asked, and I nodded. He lifted his hand, and Og popped up like a cork, glaring at me like it was all my fault his rounded scalp had gotten polished.
My mentor had spent his entire adult life walking various halls of power, putting a word in one ear, a hand on another shoulder, coaxing and pulling events and people into patterns he approved and could use. I was starting to see—on a far more crude and after-the-fact fashion—why it was so appealing.
“My thanks,” I said, and my hand moved off the table, leaving a suitable donation to the da-esh’s bar tab. Before Og could grab at it, I had turned and left.
Out on the street, I got out of the pedestrian flow, leaned my back against a building, and called the team.
*hey* A tight ping, but broad enough to reach the original Five—Pietr, Sharon, Nifty, Nick, and myself. Nobody else needed in on this—they hadn’t time yet to build up useful contacts.
Sharon and Nifty came back right away, clear question marks forming in my awareness, with Nick’s query half a second later. Nothing from Pietr. He must be busy.
*anyone hear any chatter along the rat-line the past week or so?* The actual ping was less actual words than a query and a feel for what I wanted. Group-pings were hard enough to maintain without wasting the extra energy trying to shape words, too.
*piskies?* Nifty was dubious.
*nothing here* Sharon came back, and Nick echoed that.
*what’s up?* That came from all three of them, in varying degrees.
*job for Stosser. tell ya later*
Their awareness faded from mine, and I was alone in my head. Pings weren’t really communication, the way you would talk to someone, and it wasn’t telepathy, either: there was, so far as anyone could tell, no such thing as real telepathy, although the incredibly tight, almost verbal pings Venec and I could manage might come close. That said, pings were damned convenient, and I could not understand my mentor’s reluctance to use them more—it was very definitely a generational divide. I had long suspected that J would probably still be using a wand if he thought it wouldn’t get him laughed out of the bar.
I started walking again, not really having a direction, but I thought better when I could pace. So. Piskies. I had been casting a wide net, hoping to pull in something that would give me a specific direction. Now that I had it…I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Investigate immediately? Gather more information and see if there was backup for what was—admittedly—a vague mention by an unreliable source? Go back to the office and report on my morning’s work, and ask Stosser for further instructions?
That third choice wasn’t even an option. Ian was a brilliant people-shmoozer and politician, and the driving force behind PSI, absolutely. As an investigator, though? Not so much. In point of fact, he sucked at tight-focus detail work. I could ask Venec, but he’d sounded occupied with his own shit, whatever it was, and anyway, even if he was here he’d just give me one of those Looks. And he’d be right to do so. I was dithering, and that was so unlike me I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk—earning dirty looks from the people who had to swerve around me—and wonder what the hell was going on.
“Y’know, I really don’t like this job.”
I took a step, frowning. The words had come out of me, driven by kenning-chill I could still feel shivering in my bones. Maybe it was time to stop and explore that a bit. Talk it out, Torres. Ignore the nice people carefully not-staring at me, and talk it out. Pretend you’ve got an ear-thingy on and there’s someone on the other end of the line…
Venec. His eyes half-closed, leaning against a wall like his shoulder bones grew out of it, listening to everything I said and everything I wasn’t saying.
“This job… We have so many other things going on, everyone’s working flat-out, and I’m doing pro bono work for the Fey, trying to clear up their problem so Stosser can maybe yank their leash later…”
So I felt put-upon. That wasn’t enough to explain the shivery unhappy-feeling in my bones. A little girl, seven years old, was missing. And maybe others, too, if Danny’s girls were related somehow. Even if they had just run away to join a bunch of would-be park-dwellers, my job was to find out and bring at least one of them safely home.
I started walking again, briskly, as though to leave the unease behind simply by outpacing it. “Torres, get your head out of your ass, your self-pity back in its box, and get to work.”
The kenning was never wrong—but it was always vague. The unease might be related to this case. It might not. I had no way of telling, without more info, and even if the kenning was related, it would hardly be the first time one of our cases ran us into trouble. So. I would check up on the lead, reconnoiter a bit, and see if there was anything actually going down in the Park. If not, well, checking on leads was part of the game. If yes…then I could go on from there.
The one thing I couldn’t do was let my feeling of being shunted off into a low-importance case interfere with my ability to kick ass.
* * *
Central Park is large. If you don’t live in New York City, you may not realize that, or think that the small portion that you see is all there is, just a breath of greenery in the middle of the concrete jungle.
The truth is, Central Park is more than eight hundred acres of lawns, woods, lakes, playgrounds, fields, and rambling paths that never actually go in a straight line. There are bridges and underpasses, tunnels and suddenly-appearing gazebos, restaurants and castles, and god knows what else tucked into the utterly artificial and incredibly lovely grounds. Something like thirty thousand trees, according to the stats, and rumors of coyotes to go with the birds and rabbits and squirrels and occasional seriously confused deer.
And there are fatae. Exactly how many Cosa-cousins live in the Park is unknown—even if we tried to run a census, they’d either refuse to answer or lie. Piskies, flocks of them nestling in the trees and building, their nests tangled in the roots. Dryads, not as many as we might wish, but enough to help keep the rooted trees healthy and well. Some of Danny’s full-blooded faun cousins, and at least one centaur. I didn’t think the lakes were deep enough to support any of the aquatic fatae, but I’ve been wrong a lot before, enough that I’d be very careful leaning too far over a watery surface. City fatae tended to abide by the Treaty…but water-sprites were changeable and moody and saw most humans as annoyances at best. Venec and Stosser would be peeved if they had to ransom me from the bottom of a lake.
The moment I entered the Park at West 77th Street, I knew that I was being watched. Fatae don’t use magic the way we do, but they’re part of it, and they know it when it walks by. I could pretend I wasn’t aware of the surveillance, make like I was just out for a nice afternoon stroll, or I could stop and deal with it now.
I stopped.
The closest person to me was a woman pushing a stroller a few yards ahead of me. Other than that, the walkway I was on appeared deserted. I waited until she was out of earshot, then cocked my hip and addressed the air around me.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it. I’m listening.”
Silence. Not even a rustle or a giggle, which meant that it probably wasn’t piskies. When no pinecones or other shot hit the back of my neck, I decided it definitely wasn’t piskies.
“Come on, this is boring. You have a question? Ask. Got a warning? Go ahead. But don’t just skulk silently. It’s creepy as hell.”
The sense of being watched didn’t go away, and I was starting to get annoyed. “You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question this time; last I’d gone hunting in the Park I’d almost managed to set off an interspecies incident, riling a Schiera to the point that it spat poison at me. That was the kind of thing that got retold. And I wasn’t exactly subdued in my appearance—I didn’t dye my hair the extreme colors I used to, after being told in no uncertain terms it wasn’t a good look for an investigator, but the naturally white-blond puff of curls, matched to my normal urban goth-gear, was easily identifiable. Lot of Talent in the city, but the combo of Talent, appearance, and showing up to poke my nose directly into things that other folk looked away from? Savvy fatae knew who I was, and unsavvy or ignorant fatae wouldn’t have lingered once I called them out.
“Come on. Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
My heart went into my throat and my eyes probably bugged out, and I resisted—barely—the urge to drop to my knees and apologize for every thoughtless, stupid, or mean thing I’d ever done. The woman standing in front of me tilted her long, solemn face to one side and lifted one long, gnarled hand to my hair, touching it as gently as sun touches a leaf.
“I startled you. That was not my intent.”
“M’lady—” And unlike with the Lady this morning, the title came easily to my mouth, without resentment. “You do not startle but amaze.”
Rorani. Not merely a dryad but The Dryad. It was rumored that her tree predated the Park itself, making her well over three hundred years old. Nobody had ever seen her tree, at least not and spoken about it, but Rorani was always there, moving through the Park the closest thing to a guardian spirit it had. If the fatae in New York had any leader at all, or one soul they would listen to without hesitation, it was Rorani. Her willowy green-and-brown presence could stop a bar fight in progress, halt a bellow midsound, and make edged weapons disappear as though they’d been magicked into fog.
“You are here about the children.”
“What, everyone knows about this except us?” I sighed and dragged a hand across my face as though to erase the words. “I am sorry. I just…”
“I have been watching them,” she said, accepting my apology without acknowledging either it or my rudeness. “I worry. But I did not know who to speak to, or even if I should. Humans…are difficult sometimes.”
“As opposed to the logical, tractable, and obedient fatae?”
At that, she smiled, a small, almost-shy grin that could break your heart. “Even so.”
That grin didn’t mask her concern, or soothe my unease, but it put paid to my thinking this job wasn’t worth my skills. Even if this had nothing to do with my case, I was glad I’d come. Anything that worried the Lady of The Greening, Stosser would want to know about.
“These children. Show me?”
I was surprised when the dryad hailed a pedicab. I don’t know why—even dryads must get tired of walking, eventually. I always felt guilty using a pedicab—I was in better shape than a lot of the drivers—but Rorani stepped as gracefully into the carriage as a queen into her coach, me the awkward lackey trailing at her heels.
“To the Meer, please,” Rorani said, and the pedicab headed northeast.
My first thought was to be thankful that I had encountered Rorani the moment I entered the Park, saving me probably hours of searching… and that thought led me to the suspicion that it hadn’t entirely been coincidental. Accusing a dryad of collusion with a da-esh, though, took cojones I did not have. And it changed nothing, save that the fatae of the city were helping in an investigation without being prodded, coerced, or paid, and that was…new.
I had no expectation that we were all going to join hands and sing “Kumbaya” anytime soon; we might have stepped back from the edge regarding human-fatae relations, but there were still generations of tension built into every encounter. If Rorani had given word that we were to be helped… that was a very good sign.
We skirted the Reservoir and got off a little while after 102nd street, vaguely on the east side of the Park. Rorani waited, and I belatedly dug into my bag for cash to pay the cabbie. He sneered at my request for a receipt.
“This way,” she said, as he pedaled away. We walked past the Lasker Pool and off the roadway, down a worn path, and into surprisingly deep woods.
This part of the Park had been designed to mimic a natural forest, and once within it, you could not see—or hear—any hint of the city around us, not even the tallest skyscrapers. I was pretty sure that a slender beech winked at me as we passed, but I didn’t have time to stop and say hello—and I might have imagined it, anyway.
We walked down the deer path, single file, until Rorani stopped, waiting for me to see whatever it was she wanted me to see.
There was a decline, sloping gradually into a little flat-bottomed valley, with another higher, rocky rise on the other side. The floor was covered in grass and ground cover, the trees midheight and leafy, and—then the scene shifted, the way some paintings do when you stare at them too long.
I saw the bedrolls first. They were tucked under a clump of thick-trunked trees, concealed under tarps painted to mimic the ground, but the shapes were wrong, jumping out at me like they were splashed with bright orange paint. The storage container was harder to find; they’d found one the same gray as the rocks and cluttered it up so that the lines resembled a small boulder. I was impressed.
Once I saw that, the bodies came into focus. Three skinny forms in dark hoodies and jeans, curled up against each other like kittens, and another higher up on a rock, his or her legs hanging over the side, reading a book. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, and I couldn’t see a thing about it that would have worried Rorani, other than the fact that all four were young enough to be living at home, not out here on their own. But that was a human concern, not a fatae one.
The campsite, now that I was aware of it, looked well established. Without using magic to hide it, I was amazed they’d been able to keep it from being discovered even a week, much less a month or more. I guess if nobody’s looking, it’s easier to hide.
Had anyone been looking for these girls, before us? The cops had…but in a city this size, kids go missing at such a rate it must be impossible to keep up, even on a purely Null basis. Add in the fatae, and the risk of being dusted or—well, nobody had been eaten in years. That we knew about, anyway.
“How many are there?” I spoke softly, although I was pretty sure that they couldn’t hear us from up here.
“I’m not sure,” she said, equally as quiet. “They come and go, and I cannot stay to watch them as I might. I have seen as many as a dozen gathered. A dozen, and their leader.” She paused, and her hand touched my shoulder, the fingers folding around my skin. “Their leader. She…worries me.”
Ah. I had thought Rorani would not mind teenagers gathering peacefully among her trees; there was something else going on. “An adult?”
“Yes. A Null. And yet there is magic there. She holds them in sway. A glamour, save she has none. She speaks, and they gather around. She points, and they scatter.”
I chewed on my lower lip, listening. What Rorani was describing was a charismatic, like Stosser. Take a charismatic, Talent or Null, add a bunch of under-twenty-somethings, and put them out here, with no other distractions? You have a cult.
Most cult leaders were male, from what I’d ever read, but most doesn’t ever mean all. A females-only cult? If they were religious, I’d lay money on Dianic—or Artemic—or any of the other mythological interpretations. No stag to hunt here, though.
“What do you—” I started to ask, when something caught Rorani’s attention. “Oh, dear,” she said, in a tone of voice that put every nerve I had on edge. There was “oh, dear, that’s too bad,” and then there’s “oh, dear, this is very bad,” and hers was the latter.
We weren’t alone. Out of the stillness, a dozen creatures flowed over the hill behind the campsite. They were long and lean and shimmered a pale silver like sunlight on water, and I had no idea what the hell I was looking at except I was pretty sure they weren’t bringing milk and cookies. As we watched, the first one started picking a careful, silent route down the hill.
The kids below had no idea they were about to have company.
“Landvættir,” Rorani said. Her fingers moved restlessly, her lovely face grave, but she remained still by my side, merely watching. “They claimed this area before the humans came. I tried to warn them, but they did not hear me.”
I wasn’t sure if she had tried to warn the humans or the breed, but it didn’t matter. Dryads were negotiators, not fighters; she wasn’t about to get involved in what was about to happen. I’m not much of a fighter, either. Every time I’m near a fight—any kind, even a scuffle—my heart starts to pound and my stomach hurts. But I couldn’t stand by and watch someone get hurt, either.
Any faint hope that the fatae meant no harm was dashed when—the moment they hit ground—they attacked. The humans were caught off guard, but rallied in a way that suggested they’d been taught at least some fighting moves: they rolled away from the first attackers, then went back-to-back in pairs, grabbing whatever was nearest to hand as weapons.
My move into the clearing was more hasty than graceful, but a few bruises and dirt on my clothes were the least of my worries. The fatae had sharp claws and blunted snouts that still looked like they could do some harm, and the four humans had what looked like pocket knives, a baseball bat, and a large rock. That wasn’t going to do it, even if they had the first idea where the fatae were vulnerable.
I had no idea, either—I’d never encountered these lan-whatevers before. But I had a trick these Nulls didn’t; one that any fatae would recognize and respect.
I hoped.
Reaching up with my current-sense—the thing that makes your hairs stand on end and your skin vibrate when there’s an electrical storm overhead—I grabbed the first bit of wild current I could find and dragged it down into my core. I’m normally not much for wild-sourcing, but in this place and this instance, it seemed the right thing to do.
The new current sizzled hot and fierce, and I didn’t give it time to settle into my core before I was pulling it up and out again. Thin, sharp blue lines sparked along my skin, like electric veins, and crackled and popped in the air around my hands.
Most of what we did these days was careful, regulated, and always, always thought out in advance. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do right then, except it involved keeping anyone—human or fatae—from getting killed.
One of the girls saw me, and I could tell from her body language that she wasn’t sure if I was friend or foe. Trying to reassure her, without catching the fataes’ attention, I nearly fell over one of the camouflaged lumps and kicked aside something small and shiny. A metal tent peg. I grabbed it instinctively, and the moment the cool metal hit my palm, I had a plan.
I ignored the individual scuffles, dodged around a fatae who tried to grab at me, and made it to the center of the scrum. Holding the spike up over my head, I gathered all of that wild current and sent it into the metal, wrapping it tight with hot blue threads of my own core-current, forcing it to my will.
“Sit down,” I yelled and put all my annoyance, my frustration, my worry, and my sheer irritation at wasting time with this crap into those two words.
The magic echoed like a thunderclap under the tree branches, and I swear I heard some of the granite behind me calve off and splinter in response. The effect on the fatae was gratifying. They weren’t built to actually sit down, but they dropped to the ground anyway, bellies low and clawed hands down. The humans went down like someone had cut their strings, in at least one instance falling over her erstwhile opponent.
“Stay down,” I said, still annoyed, when one of the humans tried to get back up, and she subsided. A fierce looking chica, maybe midteens, with dirty blond hair in a braid and a pair of brown eyes that were currently trying to glare me in half. She was pissed and wanted to get back into the fight. Despite myself, I started to grin and had to force it back. Now was not the time to admire her scruff.
The magic, amplified through the metal spike, had hit the ground hard, hard enough that there were still sparks in the dirt, moving like miniature whirlwinds. When one of the fatae shifted, it sparked him—her, it?—hard enough that it uttered a clear yelp and turned to glare at me with the pained expression of its human counterpart.
Apparently, I had ruined their party.
“Life sucks, kids,” I said to both of them.
There was a scuffling noise behind me, somehow managing to sound graceful, and I knew even before the fatae all looked in that direction that Rorani had decided to join us.
“This will not do,” she said. “This is not acceptable.”
The human children—and this close I could see that they were in fact all children, none of them past fourteen, probably—went wide-eyed in astonishment and fear. The fatae were just very attentive. I’d never seen—hell, I’d never even heard of a dryad losing her temper, but that was very much what was happening next to me. It took every bit of control I had not to step away.
Rorani wasn’t sparking, or yelling, or waving her arms. She had, in fact, gone very still and very tall, and the impression was not of a delicate, willowy lady but an ancient tree, deep-rooted and stern, standing beside me.
“Sweet Dog of Mercy,” I whispered, barely audible even to myself. Rorani was an American Chestnut.
To survive the blight, to live so long after her tree-kin had died out and been replaced by lesser trees… There was a lot about the Lady of the Greening, and the way the fatae reacted to her, that made more sense now.
“The Greening is large. Treaties exist. Even if these humans did not know, you did.” She was talking to the fatae then. “You knew, and were warned to behave, and yet…this? This attack?”
The pissy-looking fatae shifted its gaze, and the others all looked down at the ground. In that moment I realized something: these fatae were teenagers, too. Or whatever passed for it, in their lifecycle.
We’d interrupted the equivalent of a teenage gang turf war.
